


AUGUR.

by nevilles_little_sweetheart



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Harry Potter OC - Freeform, Hogwarts, Magic, Prophetic Dreams, once it shows up lmao, there will also be a relationship pairing at some point, there will be more tags at a later point
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-29
Updated: 2019-07-30
Packaged: 2020-07-24 23:49:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20023036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nevilles_little_sweetheart/pseuds/nevilles_little_sweetheart
Summary: Everyone has dreams. Sometimes they're beautiful and enchanting, ones you can get lost in and that hold their own kind of magic. Sometimes they're blood-curdling and terrifying, rendering you cold and unable to move. And sometimes they disappear the moment you open your eyes. In a world full of uncertainties, dreams are concrete and valid.Amelie Aguirre has dreams, just like everyone else, but the uncommon thread that displays them different from others is that they also serve as predictions. Ever since she was old enough to understand them, she's come to realize that everything she dreams comes true. The fire on her ninth birthday? Weeks before she dreamt of a house shrouded in flames. Her strange, yet exciting adventures with three unknown persons? She's always known, from her dreams, that they would occur.She has no knowledge of why she was cursed with this strange gift, and doesn't exactly want to have any. But she doesn't seem to have a choice after she goes to complete her First Year at Hogwarts, and befriending a certain Boy Who Lived threatens to reveal all.





	1. YEAR ONE: EPIGRAPH

**Author's Note:**

> Hey all! This story was originally posted on Quotev by me under the same name, but I decided that I would probably reach a larger audience with AO3 than I had been on Quotev. I really hope that people find this and enjoy it as much as I do when I write it.

_"You are not wrong, who deem_

_That my days have been a dream;_

_Yet if hope has flown away_

_In a night, or in a day,_

_In a vision, or in none,_

_Is it therefore the less gone?_

_All that we see or seem_

_Is but a dream within a dream."_

**\- Edgar Allen Poe, ‘A Dream Within A Dream'**


	2. CHAPTER ONE

_The room is gloomy and suffocating when she enters, three shadowed figures flagging either side of her. There are lit torches lining the walls, but their flames are hazy and don't illuminate the room well. She can feel the importance of what lies in the center of this vast space. It wraps its long, lonely fingers around her and squeezes her, hard. She should be frightened._

_She's not._

_"Where are we? A graveyard?" asks one of the figures to her side. Their voice is disfigured; it echoes and reverberates off of the stone and then dissipates into the dank air._

_"This is no graveyard," another, taller, figure responds, stepping further into the room. "This is a chessboard."_

_At their words, two of the large torches that surround them burst into flames and reveal the importance._

Amelie's eyes open suddenly, and she's detached from the dream. Instead of seeing the blurred fire she finds herself encased in darkness. There is no sunlight filtering in through her window, so she assumes that it's still an ungodly hour, and the rest of her parish town is in blissful unconsciousness. She yearns for that at this moment but sighs when she accepts that sleep won't come to her again until tomorrow evening, most likely.

She sits up slowly in her bed, blinking as her vision adjusts to the blackness. The birdcage in the corner of her bedroom and the rocking chair by the door threaten to twist into odd metallic beasts and wicker monsters, but Amelie ignores them, aware of the Shadows' tricks.

She reaches over and flicks on her bedside lamp, squinting slightly against the abrupt introduction of light. It covers all corners of the room, and not for the first time since she woke, she wishes her mind would let her fall victim to lethargy.

Amelie stretches and stands, glancing at the clock, which is inhabiting the spot by the lamp. It reads three o'clock. Her stomach lurches in excitement.

It's September 1st, she thinks, stumbling to her calendar and switching the month from August to the month she's been waiting for her whole life. She stares at her scratchy handwriting, at the underlined and circled HOGWARTS in the box that's labeled the first. Today's the day.

Her packed trunk sits on the floor, waiting to be loaded onto the Hogwarts Express. The birdcage, although missing the owl (Comet's nightly routine is flying outside to catch mice and such) is also ready to travel. Her letter is sitting neatly on her desk, with the supply list stacked on top. She forgot that today was the day. The day every eleven-year-old witch and wizard daydreams about during long hours at the Muggle school they're forced to attend to fit in with the norm. The day they are finally released into the realm of magic appreciated and yearned for.

She's too excited to sit still and wait for her alarm to go off at seven, so instead, she pulls on pants and a jumper and quietly enters the bathroom connecting her room to her mother's room. She flips on the light switch and sighs gratefully when she continues to hear her mum's soft snoring.

She grabs her hairbrush and starts to detangle her elbow-length honey-colored hair, grimacing as the bristles run over a particularly large knot. She meets her own eyes in the mirror and halts her actions as she notices her appearance.

Dark circles are smudged under her eyes, revealing how in need of sleep she actually is. They look strange imprinted on an eleven-year old's face, a face that should be free from any signs of worry or stress. But Amelie knows she's not a typical eleven year old. A tired face to match a tired soul.

"Blimey," she mutters as she thinks of her mother's face when she notices the circles. Cloaked in worry, no doubt, voice decorated with concern. If she was going to pull off the fresh-faced, 'I definitely sleep for more than four hours a night' shtick, she would have to smuggle some of her mother's makeup. She frowns at the prospect of stealing, somewhat, but she brushes it off as she stares herself down.

"Hogwarts will make everything better, you." Her brows furrow as she repeats the mantra. "Hogwarts will make everything better."

***

Amelie is already sitting at the kitchen table when her mother ambles in, still clad in pajamas. She gives her a chipper, "Good morning!" and Isabelle Aguirre clutches her chest in surprise.

"Good Godric, Ellie."

Amelie giggles at her mother's outburst. "I'm sorry, Mum."

"How long have you been sitting here?"

Amelie considers telling the truth; she had been sitting here for the better part of an hour, studying one of her school books. She decides against it. "Oh. Only a few minutes."

"Are you hungry, love?" Isabelle questions her daughter, and the young girl nods in response. Isabelle, having spent seven years herself at Hogwarts and knowing quite well how to use magic without causing serious damage to anything or anyone, slips her wand out from behind her ear and starts to charm the kitchen appliances. Pans fly out of the cabinets, stoves are lit, and all the while Amelie sits with unabated interest.

Her mother moves naturally with her magic, humming to herself as she paces the kitchen. Her passion and eccentricity is always unbridled, as Amelie would say, but it always seems to have its own place in the house whenever she bops along to hidden music. Her dark hair swings around her shoulders as she dances, swirling her wand somewhat carelessly, and Amelie grins. Her mother is the young age of thirty-one, and Amelie is glad she has the decency to act like it.

"How did you sleep?"

Isabelle's question catches Amelie off guard, and the smile is wiped from her face. "Uh, fine, I suppose."

"Any dreams?"

Ah, she forgot she told her mother about the dreams. It had been a while back when she dreamt that she pitched torso first into a curb after crashing her bicycle and it had come true; she escaped with a sprained wrist and several road rashes on her face, and an uneasy demeanor. Her mother noticed her hesitancy and asked her about it and Amelie spilled the beans on everything.

"Er, one. It was strange; I was with three other people, but they were covered in shadows. We were standing in this room. There was a chessboard or something..." Amelie peers into Isabelle's curious eyes and shakes her head. "It's nothing too important, I'm sure. When are we going to King's Cross?"

"We'll leave around ten. It won't get long to get there, and the train doesn't leave until eleven." The brunette's face breaks into a smile. "Are you excited, darling?"

"I'm ecstatic. But also nervous, I guess."

"The Sorting Hat?"

"The Sorting Hat."

Isabelle makes her way to the table and envelopes Amelie's hands in her own. "I want you to know that no matter what House you're sorted in, I will always be there to back you up. The Hat knows what it's doing, Ellie. He makes his choices for the right reasons." She winks. "But tell him that your mother would be extra happy if you were sorted into Ravenclaw."

Amelie beams at her mother's words. She would be thankful to be sorted in the same house her mother had been in, but Isabelle was right. The Hat was never wrong. "Thanks, Mum."

Isabelle grins back and starts to wave her wand again. "Before I start to seriously make breakfast, you should watch this trick I learned involving some eggs and this pan."


	3. CHAPTER TWO

"Have I ever told you how much I love your hair?" 

Amelie rolls her eyes at her mother's comment and swats Isabelle's hand away from her head. 

You're just trying to distract yourself from how much you're going to miss me." The quick-witted eleven-year-old smirks up at her role model, and Isabelle feigns heartache, lifting a pale hand to her forehead.

Oh, my darling daughter, whatever will I do without your constant sarcasm and tendency to mock?" She sweeps Amelie into her strong arms, pressing her to her torso. "But maybe I will miss you. Just a bit."

Platform 9 3/4 is crowded with witches and wizards of all ages; timid First Years, confident Seven Years, and parents who have been at this for far too many years. If Amelie squints she can see a few Muggles too, the ones who are as new to this as their children are. 

The train is due to leave in six minutes, and Amelie grasps onto her trunk and her owl tightly, nerves coiling in her stomach for the first time this morning. This was it. She would be away from home, from her mum, until she visited again. This was it. She was about to board the train, about to bound head-first into this life she's been waiting for since Isabelle whispered the words, "You're going to be the most beautiful witch Hogwarts has ever seen, Ellie." This was it. 

Four and a half minutes she had to say her last goodbye.

"Hey, baby," Isabelle says, squatting down to Amelie's height and cupping her face in her hands. "Your father would be so proud of you, do you know that?"

Isabelle's lilac eyes are shiny, and tears threaten to spill from Amelie's eyes as well. Hugh Aguirre hasn't been able to be proud of Amelie for eight years and counting, ever since he lost his life to someone Isabelle refuses to talk about to this day. She took her mother's word for it; she could barely remember anything about her father. She guessed, if she thought hard enough, that his eyes were once an enchanting forest green. She guessed that he had a crooked tooth, right at the front of his mouth, but that didn't stop him from smiling at anything and everything. She guessed that sometimes she'd remember a lilting Welsh accent in her dreams, calling her name or muttering a 'sweetheart'. 

She can only truly remember him through the stories her mother tells. He was a musician; he could draw the bow long and sweet against the strings of a violin; he could tango his fingers across a piano and create life; he could strum a guitar and the world would crumble at his feet. He sang Beatles songs to her to get her to fall asleep--Penny Lane, she's almost positive--and he danced with her on his feet. 

These memories are better at creating the father she wants then her broken mind could ever do.

"I know, Mum." Amelie's voice sounds cracked and dry, in need of water, but she knows it's because she's on the verge of breaking down.

"He would've stood here, just as I am now, with his arm around your shoulder and pride in his heart. He would've brought out the Gryffindor in you, I'm sure. He did in me."

"Promise you'll write to me lots, okay? I don't care how many letters I get from home." Amelie's afraid her desperate subject change saddens her mother further, but Isabelle gives her an understanding nod. Amelie wraps her arms around her mother's middle, squeezes like she doesn't want to let go, but is forced to as the train whistles. The standard 'you have two minutes to pour your heart out before we leave your helpless parent stranded' warning. 

"I'll write every day if you want." Isabelle's voice is soft and loving. "I'll write about our boring old house and our boring old town. If that ludicrous cat Frankie comes along I'll write about him too."

Amelie giggles. "You'd better."

They exchange fond smiles, and then Isabelle pats her daughter's head. "Go on. Get a good seat. And don't miss me too much."

***

She finds an okay seat in an empty compartment in the middle of the Express (the upholstery is a bit worn, but that's only expected after how many years of use?), and sets her trunk up on the shelf above. The train is already moving and leaving the station, and she can't help but feel a pang of homesickness. 

_ Oh, dear, Amelie,  _ she thinks to herself, rolling her eyes. _ It hasn't even been five minutes and you're already losing yourself. _

She backs away from the edge of longing and instead pulls out the book she received as a 'going away' present from her mother a few days ago. She's already a few chapters in, and so far, it lives up to the expectations she placed on it after realizing how much praise it's gotten from both the wizarding and the Muggle world. 

She's immersed into the story for a good half hour, and she's prepping to turn the page when, suddenly, another eleven-year-old kid bursts into the compartment, cheeks flushed, chest heaving. The abrupt entrance makes Amelie jump, and she groans when her book closes without the piece of parchment marking the page. 

The kid--a boy--is unusually short, about the same height as Amelie, and pudgy, with chocolate tresses sitting atop his head, and eyes the same shade staring guiltily at her. He's wringing his hands, which is what seems to be a nervous tick. But the oddest thing about him, Amelie can conclude, is that he seems so familiar to her. In fact, this whole situation does; the book, the train, his shy expression. It's foreboding.

"H-hello, uh, I was w-wondering if you could help me..." His voice is timid, and scared. The sound of it makes her forget all about her lost page, and she swaps the sharp tone she was going to use out with a softer one.

"What do you need help with?"

"I lost something of mine. My toad. I--I don't know where he is, and I need to find him before the train reaches Hogwarts. Could--could you help me find him?"

Amelie smiles at the apprehensive boy, and nods. She sets her book down on the seat and stands, holding out her hand for the boy to shake. 

"Of course. I'd love to help you. My name's Amelie Aguirre."

The boy smiles wide, showing crooked teeth, and accepts the handshake. "I--I'm Neville. Longbottom."

"It's nice to meet you, Neville."

The pair of them decide to start at the front of the train, q uestioning the fullest compartments first, with no avail. They ask for Trevor from each person, and each person glances at them humorously and shakes their head. 

"Oh, I'm never going to find him, am I?" Neville asks after exiting yet another compartment, face brooding and sorrowful, and Amelie places her hand on his shoulder. There's that déjà vu thing again. 

"We'll find him, Neville. I promise. We just have to keep looking. We've only been through about fifteen compartments."

They stumble across a near-empty one, aside from a young girl sitting with her nose stuck in a thick academic book. They open the door, expecting the girl to look up from her reading, but she doesn't even acknowledge their presence.

Amelie clears her throat in an attempt to gain her attention, but the girl only hums and continues to read. Amelie is taken aback by her blunt rudeness but presses on anyway.

"Have you happened to see a toad around here, by chance? My friend, Neville, he's lost his, and--"

"No, no toad here, I'm afraid." The girl slams her book shut, and Neville and Amelie both startle. "But I've noticed your struggle to find him. I am willing to help you if you'll let me."

Amelie and Neville exchange hesitant glances. His burnt brown eyes say something like, this girl is all over the place, should we let her help? and her golden eyes respond with a phrase like we need all the help we can get. 

When they look back at the girl, she's standing up, with her arms crossed. Her hair is an ashy brown color, terribly bushy and long, and her demeanor reflects that, on the inside, she sees herself to be very smart, almost in a chaotic sort of way. It intimidates Neville, who has always been introverted and reticent, and even Amelie, who, in some cases, is most likely more intimidating than this girl they just happened upon. 

"Um, sure you can help. Welcome aboard," Amelie finally answers. "What's your name?"

The girl grins mischievously, revealing two overly large front teeth, and an impish glint shines in her eyes. "I'm Hermione Granger. A pleasure."

The words resonate with Amelie, oddly. 

_ I'm Hermione Granger. A pleasure.  _

There's a familiarity weaved between them.

_ I'm Hermione Granger. A pleasure. _

Amelie chews on this for a moment, and suddenly-realization dawns. Her dream from earlier this morning, with the chessboard and the shadowed figures... this Hermione is one of the people standing next to her. She's sure of it, just as she's sure that the other two figures, whoever they might be, are on this train at this very moment. And she might become acquainted with them, very soon. Her stomach churns.

_ I'm Hermione Granger. A pleasure. _


End file.
